Alone
by Sierra Nichole
Summary: FutureFic. After years of doing the job for free, Dean is forced to part with the one thing he has left in the world, and he reflects upon all that it has meant to him over the years.


**Title: Alone**

**Author: Sierra**

**Rated: PG**

**Disclaimer: I really wish I owned Supernatural, but I don't...nor do I own any of the characters, including (but not limited to) the Winchester family and the Metallicar :)**

**Summary: After years of doing the job for free, Dean is forced to part with the only thing he has left in his life.**

**A/N: I'm still very new to writing SPN fanfics, and also to writing from this POV, so any constructive criticism is whole-heartedly welcomed! (Don't be afraid, I won't bite!) But, of course, if you like it, I enjoy hearing that, too :)**

"Nice car!"

On any given day, that shout from a group of teenage boys standing on the corner of Tioga Street would've had Dean grinning like there was no tomorrow, forgetting all about his aching belly pleading for food, or his shaking hands, and tired eyes. Yes, on any other day, he would be 16-years-old again, driving his dad's car and acting like he was on top of the world. There would be no one else but him and his baby. But today, not even the compliments, or the Impala's low purr was enough to give him comfort as he continued on, making a right at the old theater and heading over a bridge towards the WalMart parking lot where "it" was all taking place.

It was a warm day, the middle of June in a small Pennsylvania town, people were walking up and down the sidewalks and checking out the tiny shops along the way, enjoying the weather and each other's company. Dean glanced out his window, taking notice of them all . . . a young family standing outside Gables Bakery, the children obviously excited about getting donuts . . . a man, maybe in his mid-50s, sitting on the front steps of the music store, strumming his guitar . . . a group of young girls filing into the Boretti's Dance Studio, talking excitedly.

The light turned red and he eased to a stop, resting one arm out the window and tapping the door impatiently, silently wishing the day was just over already and he could collapse for the night, maybe drown his misery in a bottle of Jack. _Southern Comfort, _he amended, _that oughta' do it. _Rolling his lips and increasing his tapping did nothing to calm his mood, so instead he decided to look around some more: Just in time to see two young men crossing the street together, the shorter one reaching up to smack the other across the back of his head, muttering something about "stupid little brother" while the taller just laughed.

Dean winced, and suddenly a voice he had forced himself to not think of for a long time floated into his ears, that carefree laugh after Dean would say something stupid . . . god, he could still see the way Sam would roll his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh before: "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean muttered, smirking in spite of himself.

Green light. Starting off again, Dean finally caught sight of the sign up ahead, and braced himself for what he knew would be coming; it had always been just a matter of time, something he had half-expected his father to do before he ever even got the chance. But that's not how things worked out. No, ten years after his father's death, and five years after his baby brother's, and after over twenty years of doing the job without any pay . . . he was finally giving up the only thing he had left in the world. After all, you could only keep up the credit card scamming for so long.

Slowly, he made the turn into the parking lot and eased his way in, wary of the other drivers who blew through the stop signs and ignored his gestures and glares. _Stupid people these days, they've got no respect for their cars. _It had never been about obeying the rules of the road to Dean, after all, he was never one for following other people's rules---it was about taking care of the Impala, making sure she came back to the motel every night without a scratch on her. Muttering under his breath about teenage drivers as yet another car cut in front of him, Dean finally made it safely into a spot facing the road, knowing that the buyer would never be able to miss him sitting there.

Flinching again at that word---_buyer_---he got out of the car and leaned against her hood, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from deep within the pocket of his leather jacket, he had never smoked a day in his life up until a week ago, when he made the decision to put the Impala up for sale. It was the last straw, as far as he was concerned, though not too many people left in the world could understand the kind of bond he shared with her. _"It's just a car"_ they would say, encouraging him to just buy another one, or get over it.

But it wasn't about the car.

There weren't many, but there were other 1967 Chevy Impala's just like his (well, minus the bloodstains and devil's trap . . . ) out there; if he ever wanted to, he could probably find another one, or at least something close enough. Any Impala past 1965 and up to 1975 was still damn good muscle car, in his opinion, and would serve it's purpose just fine. No, it definitely wasn't about the car. Or even how good he looked driving her around. At least . . . that wasn't _all _it was about.

His parents had met because of that car. He knew the story all too well . . .

_**July 4th, 1975**_

_**John Winchester sat on the back of his Chevelle, throwing back slug after slug and watching the fireworks light up night sky, despite the want---and need---to get the hell out of there. He never was one for a big gathering of any kind. Let alone one with loud bangs and screaming, little children. Scowling, he took another swig and tossed the empty bottle into the trash bin a few feet away, smacking his lips soundly as the alcohol burned his throat.**_

_**The rumble of a high-powered engine caught his attention at that moment, and he looked up to see a sleek black Impala being driven in by a drop-dead gorgeous blonde, who smiled and waved at a group of young people gathered down at the football field before pulling in next to John. She got out, tossing her long hair over her shoulders and straightening out the embroidered top she wore before turning and seeing him perched on the trunk, leaning against his car's back window.**_

_**"Damn good car you've got there," John mused.**_

_**Two thin eyebrows shot up, obviously in distaste. "Thanks."**_

_**"It belong to your brother or something?"**_

_**Now a set of blue eyes flashed angrily, when she spoke, her voice was like cold ice against bare skin: "No. **_**She **_**is mine."**_

_**John nodded, watching curiously as she started to walk away, wanting---for some reason---her to stay. "You got a three-o-five or a three-fifty under there?" he called out just as she reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street.**_

_**This time, she laughed.**_

_**And it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.**_

_**Unable to stop himself, he slid down from the back of his car and walked across the street, his hand outstretched: "John Winchester."**_

_**"Mary Campbell." At that moment, John decided he much preferred those eyes to be looking at him fondly, rather than angrily; and then she added: "And it's a three-fifty. Put it in her myself."**_

_**From that point on, there was never any doubt in John Winchester's mind that he was going to marry that girl, no matter how many times he had to ask . . .**_

It had taken two proposals before Mary had finally agreed to marry him, Dean recalled his father telling him, though his memory of the storytelling was vague, he'd only been about four. He remembered sitting on his father's knee and listening to his deep, gravelly voice as his mother stood in the kitchen doorway, a little Sam perched on her hip.

Dean took another drag off the cigarette before tossing it on the ground and stomping it into the concrete, angered at himself for bothering to relive that tale in his mind. _Can't make it easy on yourself can you, Winchester? Gotta think about shit like that! How'm I supposed to sell the car that brought my own parents together? _Another voice deep within his mind told him it was because he had no choice, but that sure as hell didn't make it any easier.

Of course, it wasn't just the good memories that kept him so attached to the car, there were some bad ones, too . . . from his childhood . . .

_**November 18th, 1996**_

_**"Dean!" **_

_**Sammy's frantic cry shocked Dean back into reality where the pressure of his father's hands on his stomach couldn't, he never could bear to see Sammy in pain, or fear, or anything discomforting, really. Funny, he couldn't see Sammy too well, at all . . .**_

_**"You'll be all right, son," John assured him.**_

_**"Wh-what happened?" Damn, was that **_**his **_**voice!?**_

_**"Wendigo." John looked up, his gruff face etched with concern. "You don't remember?"**_

_**"I---argh!!" Dean cried out, trying in vain to push away his father's probing, pain-inducing hands, but two tinier hands grabbed his and pulled them away; hard as he tried, Dean couldn't hide the whimper that escaped from his lips and he turned away to hide his face.**_

_**"It's okay, Dean," Sammy whispered, one of his hands reaching up to run through Dean's short hair. "You'll be okay."**_

_**"Goddamn, Sammy!" Dean gasped, breathless. **_

_**"Here---" Sammy squeezed Dean's trembling hand, surprising his older brother with the amount of strength the 13-year-old was able to muster. "Squeeze when it hurts."**_

_**"I-I can't . . . " Dean groaned.**_

_**"Yes, you can." Sammy placed his other hand on top, covering both of theirs with it. "Don't worry about me, Dean. I can take it."**_

_**And as John poured another dose of holy water over the wound, Dean gave in and squeezed the hand of his baby brother till he couldn't squeeze any harder, gritting his teeth against the pain, hoping to at least spare Sammy the horror of watching his big brother cry like a girl. **_**Oh shit, was that a tear? **_**Almost before he had time to process the thought, Sammy's thumb brushed the wetness away from his cheeks as John turned around to grab more bandages.**_

_**"It's okay," he whispered, smiling slightly. "I won't tell Dad . . . "**_

And, of course, he hadn't.

"God, Sammy . . . " Dean choked on the word, blinking furiously as he tried to fight the tears that threatened to come. All his life, he had tried so goddamn hard to take care of that kid, to make sure he was safe and happy, even going so far as to sell his own soul to bring him back from death! Sam had eventually figured out a way to free him from the deal, but only four years later, Dean was left alone when a simple "salt 'n burn" went horribly, horribly wrong.

Five years later, Dean still didn't understand how he couldn't have seen the spirit appear behind Sam in time to warn him. Or how he couldn't move fast enough to save him as he was pushed over the edge of the cliff and into the raging water below. He had dragged Sam's freezing body out after forcing himself to finish the ritual, then pleaded and cried for him to come back as he desperately tried to breathe life back into him. Hours later, the next morning . . . Bobby had found him, crumped over Sam's still form, all his tears shed.

"Hey, man!"

Clearing his throat and wiping his eyes, Dean turned to face the scrawny man by the name of Jacob who was shooting him a toothy grin, his green eyes sparkling with excitement. He had called Dean a few days ago after seeing the Impala sitting in the parking lot with a bright orange FOR SALE sign in her windshield, his voice betraying his anticipation even as he tried to act cool. _And really, who could blame the guy?_ Dean reflected, thinking to himself that at least, the Impala would go to someone who would appreciate her.

"I've got the cash right here," Jacob said, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out a beat-up, leather wallet; he pulled out the money and counted it out before handing it over to Dean. "Five thousand, there ya' go."

"Good." Was he really going through with this? _Too late to turn back now anyway._

"Sure is a beauty." Jacob whistled. "Had her for long?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded sharply. "She, uh, belong to my mom."

"Well, isn't that something!"

"Yeah," but he whispered that too quietly for anyone to hear. "Listen," he said, louder, "this is gonna sound weird . . . but, um, do you mind if I have just a couple more minutes? I'm not gonna lie, I'm kind of attached to this car."

"Hey, no problem." Jacob raised his hands, then gestured to the Ford pickup a few spaces away, where a brunette woman was sitting in the driver's seat. "I'll be over there."

"Thanks."

As Jacob walked away, Dean turned back and surveyed his pride and joy, stroking her black coat and running his fingers alone the chrome lining; he glanced in the backseat, where so much blood and tears had been spilled, into the front, where he had learned how to drive, and then a few years later, taught Sam. The trunk, which used to be packed full of weapons and ammo, ready for any dangers that may lay ahead. The hood, and the engine underneath, which he put in himself ten years ago after that fateful accident with the semi.

So many memories.

_Where did it all go anyway?_ His father, with the stern voice but gentle eyes, guiding him every step of the way. His brother, the one who was never afraid to put him in his place, or to stand up to Dad, or ashamed to pull those trembing lips and puppy dog eyes whenever he wanted something. All those hunts . . . so many spirits, and creatures, things that go bump in the night, whatever you wanted to call them. _Whatever happened to those days?_

"I guess you're retired now, baby," Dean murmured, resting his hand on top of the Impala and staring into the driver's seat. "You've sure done us all good . . . for a long time. Take care now."

Steeling himself, he tossed the keys onto the seat and began walking away.

"Hey!" Jacob yelled after him, "you need a ride home, man?"

_Home._ Huh. That was a funny thought. He'd just sold the only home he'd ever known.

"No," he answered, "I'm good." He hesitated, watching as Jacob opened the door and sat down behind the wheel. "Take good care of her, will you?"

"Don't worry," Jacob replied, "I will."

There were no other words to say, so Dean Winchester just tucked his hands deeper into his pockets and kept on walking, no longer trying to fight back the tears as they welled up in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He knew that he was finally, completely alone in the world.

**THE END**


End file.
